


The Ghost of a Touch

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Inspired by OQ, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Lady Regina Mills died an untimely death at eighteen, and has haunted Mills Manor ever since, successfully driving away all who ever breach its walls. One man, Robin Locksley, proves a tough nut to crack - especially when, for reasons unfathomable even to her, he's able to touch her in ways no one ever has, or should be able to.





	The Ghost of a Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this spectre-cular drawing by queenieappleby: https://queenieappleby.tumblr.com/post/166192571541/spookyoq-day-8-ghost-lady-regina-mills.
> 
> Apologies for all mistakes - posting this unedited for now as I'm too exhausted to see.

She no longer remembers what it feels like to breathe.

 

Many a thing has faded from memory, sensations have dulled, emotions been lulled to sleep. She’d almost say Death has been kind—almost. There’s a price though—there always is—and much as everything in Life, Death also comes with caveats.

 

Old feelings awaken sometimes, a handful or so of them. Grief and pain ebb and flow, blurry edges coming into sharp, agonising focus whenever she passes her own portrait in the once-grand drawing room. Her hot temper and her quickness to anger also tend to flare when she’s prodded and provoked by uncalled for guests.

 

Even though Mills Manor hasn’t been lived in in decades, people come and go—perhaps not for months at a time, but they always come back, and bring all sorts of paraphernalia with them.

 

Some simply seek to expand their estate by adding yet another lucrative property to it, and have been kept in the dark about her ongoing residence here. Some on the other hand have heard one too many tales, and arrive armed to the teeth with all sorts of contraptions supposedly equipped to hunt and capture spirits. Yet others bring overnight bags and a cemented scepticism of the so-called supernatural.

 

To the daredevils, the firm believers, the deniers, the blissfully ignorant, she chooses to present different faces, or else makes the choice to recuse herself completely. She likes to frustrate the enthusiasts by not showing at all, and finds dark enjoyment in pranking the cocky, terrorising the arrogant, and—in one extreme case—even driving the truly horrid to the point of madness.

 

Today’s not one of one of those days, though. Today she’s overcome by lethargy, that deep sense of nothingness lingering from her living days, too dispirited to care. Today, whoever is currently approaching the dilapidated carcass of Mills Manor will, for better or for worse, not make the acquaintance of the late Lady Regina Mills.

 

Oh but they stay (the insolence!). The new presence settles over her like a blanket; she can sense the man before she ever sees him. With him comes an odd tingling, a disturbance in her spirit she’s never quite experienced before. He makes her nervous with his quiet, unassuming yet confident manner.

 

He settles in one of the guest bedrooms and appears completely indifferent about the house’s reputation—about  _ her  _ reputation— and eager neither to find her nor to avoid her. It’s presumptuous, the way he settles in and stays for a night, then two, then three, as if the place belonged to him.

 

What does he want? He’s not a prospective buyer, doesn’t explore the dark-panelled halls or the spacious rooms. All he seems to care about is the grounds.

 

On the third day, he starts digging. Dead and decayed remains of rosebushes, topiaries long since deteriorated to shapeless, demonic forms, and tentacles of poison ivy succumb to broad back and strong arms as she watches from above, her ire simmering just beneath the surface. How dare he invade her home like this, how dare he tear out weeds and upturn dank soil, piling relics of the past in one corner as he cleans a path towards the heart of the garden?

 

And that’s it—she’s had it with the insolent thief.

 

Giving her spectacular rage free reign, Regina launches a fierce attack. She rattles mirrors and smashes glasses; she trails ectoplasm over silk carpets and marble floors (she usually forgoes the odious substance by passing through doors rather than walls to avoid the mess, and hates him for forcing her hand like this); she whispers in his ear by day and presses down upon his chest at night to haunt his dreams. She does everything she can think about, both by the book and beyond—and he bears it all with a patience and a stubborn perseverance that grates at her very last metaphorical nerve.

 

So she throws a tantrum the likes of which the manor’s never before seen. It snuffs out the candles in all the candelabras and smothers the flames in the fireplace; sends window panes bursting from frames and shattering into a million pieces; wrecks the walls with a spiderweb of new cracks and scatters ancient portraits of her ancestors on the floors.

 

Only one remains in place—and once she’s tired herself out and the dust has settled again, he comes upon it.

 

She hovers at his shoulder as he reads her name,  _ Lady Regina Mills _ , on the golden plate. She lingers as he gazes at her earthly face eternalised in a moment of inner turmoil and agony. She shivers at her stiffness, the sadness in her own eyes captured on canvas—can he see it, too?

 

Biting his lip and frowning deeply, he reaches forward, touching his fingers to the picture.

 

Regina gasps—she hasn’t breathed in forever, but she remembers that sharp intake of air, and even though she’s no need for it, cannot explain it, she  _ gasps _ . Because she’s spirit without substance, can manifest as a nebulous image at best, and as such she can’t be touched—and this man, this man didn’t reach for her at all but only for her likeness… So then how—how is she suddenly able to  _ feel his touch _ ?

 

She gasps, and he turns around, squinting in the dim light his single candle supplies.

 

Regina flees.

 

“Milady!” he cries after her. “Please—I mean you no harm!”

 

But Regina cannot hear him, only her own heart  _ thump-thumping  _ against her ribcage (she doesn’t have a chest to hold the non-existent ribcage or a heart to beat against hit, nor a pulse to quicken) as she flies through the gates and into the garden to cower like a scared puppy in her favourite hideaway.

 

Only she can barely recognise it now.

 

Her beloved apple tree had died with her, its limbs drying up, twisting themselves into claws, never to bear fruit again. Vines had overgrown it, creating an impenetrable dome over the only friend that had been with her until her cruel, untimely end. It had roots, much like Regina, stubborn enough to ensure a living death.

 

There’s no sign of vines now, no contenders to choke the shy little leaves shooting from rejuvenated branches or deprive them of the pale sun. Underfoot, roots bulge brazenly in freshly-turned and watered soil. Overhead, a robin flaps his wings—the first one this year, a harbinger of spring.

 

He’s saved her tree.

 

But why?

 

A choked sound struggles to break free—a dry sob, and Regina is its source.

 

But...how?

 

Ghosts neither breathe nor choke, neither flush nor sob. She certainly never has before. Not until this man—intruder, thief—came into her li—Death.

 

He’s standing exactly where she left him, rooted to the spot it seems, staring at her portrait with his face so close his nose is almost touching the canvas.

 

If he were to, would she feel it again?

 

Such thoughts are dangerous, especially coupled with the longing that trails behind them, and she forbids herself to indulge the long-forgotten sentiment.

 

“What  _ do  _ you mean, then?” she questions as she materialises beside him, and if her voice is wobbly, she’ll blame it on lack of use.

 

His jaw drops, but he doesn’t run—he steps closer, in fact, by perhaps an inch, inhaling once, twice, then shaking his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering between the painting and her current vague, shadowy form. His eyes are blue, and remind her of forget-me-nots and pastel dresses on rare, carefree days. His eyes are blue, and he can’t seem to look away from her.

 

“I—Robin Locksley, at your service,” he stammers, reaching for her hand (to kiss it or shake it, she doesn’t know, can’t quite face how each prospect both thrills and scares her), then catching himself and clasping them behind his back. “Apologies for the intrusion—I didn’t know.”

 

“You didn’t—?” Regina scoffs. “You didn’t know ghosts are real, or that some of us don’t take kindly to having our homes usurped?”

 

“That this house was still someone’s home. I was hired to rejuvenate the garden,” he explains sheepishly.

 

_ Oh. _ Of course. He saved her tree because he was being paid to. What did she expect?

 

“Your client will be pleased. The apples from that tree know no equal.”

 

Robin merely hums, shrugging.

 

“Sadly, they don’t actually want to keep the tree—they specifically asked for everything to be removed and for new saplings to be brought in.”

 

“So why did you rescue it?”

 

“More heart had gone into its care than anything on all the estate.” There’s that probing gaze again, yet also soft—she doesn’t remember when she was last looked at with such softness. “Yours, I presume.”

 

“You presume a lot,” she mutters. “But, yes.”

 

Regina doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know where the heat in her (non-existent, Regina, come on) cheeks is coming from because it definitely isn’t the one sad candle, and certainly can’t be due to his compliment. No, not compliment—observation.

 

Robin breaks the silence in the end, the stirrings of a smile on his lips.

 

“I’ve vexed you with my presence here and for that, I’m sorry. To tell you true, though...I’m happy we met.”

 

“And why is that?”

 

“I—can’t explain. My gut’s always served me well, however.”

 

“Well, we know it’s no good at spectre-detection,” she teases.

 

Much to her surprise, his expression grows solemn.

 

“I’ve felt your presence. I just didn’t understand. I still don’t.”

 

She’d like to say she can explain, but alas, she can’t.

 

“Milady…” Robin clears his throat. “May I speak openly?”

 

“Wouldn’t that be refreshing?” He makes no response to the sarcasm though, just waits her out, and Regina sighs—she’s curious, very much so, but is loath to show it. “Please do.”

 

“I’ve no right to be here against your wish. Say the word, and I shall leave straight away, never to bother you again—if you will, I’ll even spread word of why everyone else, too, should give Mills Manor a wide berth.”

 

“Do I sense a but?”

 

“However,” he chances a smirk, and suddenly there’s a pair of dimples winking at her as she catches herself gracing him with a smug grin of her own. “I should very much like to extend my visit, if you’ll allow it. I was honest before—I’ve had this peculiar feeling ever since I first arrived, and now that we meet, it’s only grown...more.”

 

“Perhaps it’s telling you to run while you can,” she cautions.

 

But he only smiles at her, so open and disarming even her skepticism begins to lift.

 

“Ah, but that’s just it. It’s telling me to stay. That this is, somehow...right. That a woman with such a passion, strength and determination would be a pleasure to get to know.”

 

Regina crosses her translucent not-arms over her chest. Is that really what he’s calling her best efforts to eradicate his presence just minutes before?

 

“I’m well aware I have a temper,” she accuses. He did say he’d be frank, didn’t he? “Perhaps you shouldn’t downplay that—for your own good.”

 

Robin’s smile falls at that, and those clear blue eyes survey her. Her irritation must be rather obvious, because the nod he gives her is earnest beyond doubt.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, milady.”

 

“I prefer Regina.”

 

She doesn’t know what comes over her, only that she wants to try, wants to see if that mysterious phenomenon of before was even real, or a mere coincidence, or perhaps simply a figment of her imagination. She uncrosses her arms in an offer to shake hands, and burns as he grasps hersin his, with twin gasps rising into the cool air—it’s real then, and it works both ways, he can feel it, too.

 

She feels dizzy, light-headed, and defiant all at once.

 

She’d been robbed of kind, gentle touches all her life; why not enjoy the unlikely gift of them in Death?

 

So Regina quells the gut-twisting anxiety, and grants him permission to stay. Just for a few more nights, to finish the job. The estate won’t sell, no matter how much they try to refurbish, Regina will make sure of that. No need for that to cost a decent man his livelihood, is there?

 

A few nights turn into a week, then two, a month. The garden is in full blossom, on its way to becoming Mills Manor’s very own little forest some day, complete with a small clearing and a family of robins nesting among the branches.

 

Robin is...patient, and unassuming, and so unspeakably kind (devilishly handsome, too—it turns out such things still matter to her, or matter again, she’s not sure). He confesses he’s father to a young boy, that his son stays with his friends in the village when he’s away for work. He brings Roland to the manor shortly after, and they move him into Regina’s old childhood nursery.

 

Regina doesn’t have a heart, but she loves the dimpled little charmer with a fierceness and depth she never thought possible.

 

They discover physical contact drains her, leaves her exhausted if not carefully rationed, and so they take it slow—they sit side by side on the stone bench under her tree, and talk for hours on end, or simply cloudgaze wordlessly.

 

She’s forgotten how to breathe—but, against all odds, she’s starting to learn anew.


End file.
